


Anniversary Pt. 2

by Zoeleo



Series: Rara Avis [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: Despite his strained relationship with Bruce, Dick returns to the manor to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Jason's adoption. The festivities however must be put on hold when his new little brother goes missing. Bruce may not have made Jason Robin, but that doesn't mean the youngest Wayne is safe from the all the dangers of Gotham. Especially when an old acquaintance from Jason's past makes an appearance.A sequel to Anniversary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. So. Guys...I know its been a while since I've put anything out on Many Deaths or Empty Vessels, and I apologize. But I've secretly been working on this for months now. Its my baby. I repeat, _MY BABY._ I'm super excited to share it with you. There's some fluff, some laughs, some feels. I decided to make it a stand-alone instead of grouping it with Anniversary all in one fic so Anniversary could remain a nice angst-free one-shot.. Read, comment, enjoy!
> 
> I do not speak Spanish, so if you see anything that seems inaccurate _please_ let me know how to correct it. I've been using Google translate and we all know that's not foolproof especially when regarding genders, tenses, etc.

“Alfred!” Jason shouts over the bannister from the top of the stairs, “Have you seen my math book?”

“I’m sorry Master Jason, if you only yelled a little louder I’m sure I could hear what it is you are looking for,” the butler’s voice floats back to him.

Jason rolls his eyes and clomps down the stairs.

“Sorry Alf,” he sticks his head around the kitchen doorway apologetically, “Have you seen my math book anywhere?”

“Did you check your room?”

“Well I thought I left it down here last night but I didn’t see it when I had breakfast so I thought maybe Dick grabbed it on accident when he went to study in the library but it’s not there either,” Jason explains in one long run-on sentence.

“Did you check your room?” Alfred repeats patiently.

“Uh, no. But I know I didn’t leave it there.”

Alfred looks up from the lunchbox he’s packing and arches one eyebrow dramatically.

“Perhaps someone was cleaning the kitchen last night after dinner and returned your school items back to your room where they belong,” he intones pointedly.

Jason’s shoulders sag, “Aw shit, Alf. I’m sorry, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Language,” Alfred admonishes him with a tic of the moustache.

“Damn it! Crap,” Jason growls in frustration, “I mean, sorry!”

Alfred’s eyes crinkle up at the corners to let Jason know he’s forgiven. He runs back up to his room and swears at the neatly piled stack of books and papers on the desk. He shoves them in his backpack and races down to the kitchen once more, snagging his Wonder Woman lunchbox off the counter. Alfred is waiting for him at the servant’s entrance, keys dangling in hand.

He still feels weird about it, getting chauffeured to and from school instead of taking a bus or walking, but the manor is too far from downtown for either of those. At least he’s not going to that dumb private school anymore. He touches the collar of his shirt, feeling the soft cotton there instead of the noose-like weight of a tie. He’d rather be whispered about behind his back here for being Bruce Wayne’s new kid, than the snide comments to his face for being Catherine Todd’s son there. He’d bloodied the nose of the last prick that called his mom a two-dollar druggie whore. Of course, Eliot Frye had knocked a tooth out later when he cornered him in the bathroom, but it was just a baby tooth that had been loose for a while so he hadn’t minded too much. Bruce though, had thrown a fit.

Now that had been weird. He’d been so sure Bruce would be mad at him. People were already wondering if Bruce Wayne had snapped, taking in a mangy gutter-rat. Jason attacking another student at school only fueled their invective and made Bruce look bad. He’d already packed a bag full with food and clothes when Bruce took him to his study and sat him down. But instead of telling him to hit the road, Bruce had asked if he was okay and then given him a lecture on not rising to take the bait and letting bullies get the best of him. He didn’t really buy into much of what Bruce had said, but he promised to try - if only because he had been a little desperate to repay Bruce for his concern. 

And how strange was that?! That someone was _concerned_ for him now? So he tried. He tried so hard to do what Bruce asked of him, but Bruce had finally been forced to pull him out after the third time he got sent home early with a black eye and busted lip. The principal hadn’t seemed to care that it wasn't his fault. He’d been standing up for someone else, a quiet nerdy boy a grade under him who was too shy and to defend himself. Jason idly wonders how many swirlies and wedgies the poor kid had suffered since. 

When Alfred pulls the car up into the school’s drop off lane, Jason pops the door and jumps out on the pavement before it comes to a full stop. If he’s not quick enough, the old man will try and open his door for him, as if being dropped off in a big shiny caddy isn’t bad enough.

“Thanks, Alf!” Jason yells over his shoulder and skips up the front steps. He makes his way past the large jungle mural in the entryway (Welcome to Gotham Intermediate School No. 4! Home of the Gorillas!) and down the hall on the right where the seventh grade lockers are. He stashes his lunchbox and some of his heavier books inside before heading to homeroom. Only a handful of other students are already there. Alfred is fastidious in his punctuality, often arriving even before the buses. Jason doesn’t mind, it gives him his pick of seats in the morning. He kicks his bag under the desk in the second to last seat next to the windows and sits. Jason prefers to call as little attention to himself as possible. If you always sit in the back people think you’re hiding or trying to look cool. But the second to last row? You’re practically invisible.

The warning bell rings and more kids start to trickle in. The last few shoot in panting, trying to beat the final bell. Jason crosses his arms over his desk and rests his chin on them. He doesn't get the point of homeroom. Why can’t they just say the pledge and listen to the morning announcements in their first class? It'd be more efficient. Jason’s eyes wander lazily around the room while Vice Principal Gillespie drones over the speakers. Blah blah, pep rally. Blah blah, fundraiser. Blah blah blah. 

He’s startled out of his trance by a smothered giggle and feels his face flush instantly. Shit! He’s been spacing-out while staring directly at Rena Marconi. She probably thinks he’s been leering at her like some creepy asshole. Jason jolts up straight in his seat and spends the rest of homeroom looking everywhere else except towards the pretty girl. The sound of the bell is his savior from further humiliation and Jason’s bag hasn’t even hit his shoulder before he’s scrambling to get out in the hall.

He walks quickly. His first class is P.E. and the gym is on the far side of the building. Jason likes having P.E. first; it gets his blood pumping, waking him up and gives him a bit of a confidence boost for the rest of the day. It's one of the few classes he doesn’t have to try at. His size had earned him a few groans the first time they divvied into teams, but since then he’s proven that his hand-eye coordination is impeccable, and even more importantly that he is _fast_. After years of running from cops and dodging drunks, moving a ball up and down a field or court is easy. It’s fun using the skills he honed on the streets for play rather than survival.

Jason strips out of his clothes in the locker room into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt with the school mascot on it as quickly as he can. He’s not uncomfortable with nudity or his skinny frame but there are scars he doesn’t want anyone to see. The shiny circular puckers he can’t hide on his forearms are enough. Once the locker rooms empty there’s a collective grumble when Coach Avery announces they’ll be doing the mile run today. Jason shrugs. It’s not as exciting as the sports they play but he enjoys the solitary nature of it; there’s no frustration in having to depend on others or the fear of letting a team down. It's all about self-reliance and challenging yourself.

Coach Avery leads them through their warm up stretches then divides them into heats. Jason’s grouped into the second wave. He joins in slinging a water bottle back and forth with a couple of boys he recognizes from his other classes until they’re called to the start line. It takes three laps around the perimeter of the school to make a mile. Coach Avery warns them if they try and shave seconds off their time by cutting across the baseball field, Mrs. Rasmussen will see them from the art studio and tell on them. He waits for everyone to nod his or her acknowledgement then blows the whistle.

Jason is one of five who carve through the crowd to the front instantly. He knows most of the others will tire and drop back after the initial sprint, but not him. This he can do. He stays neck and neck with Lupita, the track team queen, for the first lap but gets distracted on the second when they pass Mr. Preacher’s science lab. Jason almost stumbles when he gets a glimpse of Rena raising her hand to answer a question through the window. He puffs out his chest a little and pumps his legs harder in an effort to catch up to Lupita.

He really does stumble when he rounds the building's corner and catches sight of the figure slumped against the chain link fence behind the bleachers of the baseball diamond. Jason tenses at the familiar slouch of the shoulders but the person has their hood pulled up so he can’t be sure of whom it is. Jason continues on with single-minded focus in his final lap, missing the small wave sent his way from the science lab window, until he passes the bleachers again. His already strained breath catches, making him choke when the hooded figure turns his way and pulls a cigarette from his lips. Troy Avilés. Jason frowns and pushes harder, anxious to finish so he can double back and figure out what Troy is doing here.

He comes in just seven seconds behind Lupita, earning him a clap on the back from Coach Avery that he tries not to shy away from too obviously. Nothing about Coach Avery feels like those white-toothed suburban men who like to go slumming through the Narrows in their mid-life crisis sports cars, but Jason’s still not comfortable with any touch that’s not on his terms.

“Good job, Todd!” Avery exclaims, “With a time like that Coach Ramirez will be dying to get you on the track team.”

Jason smiles at the praise best he can while bent over his knees panting for breath, “Thanks, I was actually thinking more about maybe trying out for the baseball team.”

Coach Avery looks over him considering, “Well, try-outs aren’t til next April. If you still want to then, I’ll look forward to seeing you there. Alright, now take a walk.”

Jason nods and forces himself upright again. He makes his way back towards the diamond under the pretense of taking a cool-down lap and waits until the main body of runners go by before approaching the fence.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses through the chain link.

“Good to see you too, _camarón_ ,” Troy drawls back.

Jason glances over his shoulder at the school, “Sorry. But seriously, what are you doing here?”

“Trish said her little sister saw you were back in school. Didn’t believe her, figured you’d be in some fancy-ass boarding school in like fuckin’ Sweden or something. Wanted to come check for myself,” Troy answers coolly, grinding his cigarette butt out under the toe of his black and red Air Jordans.

“Yeah, well. I’m here. So, now you know,” Jason says distractedly, eyes flicking towards the stragglers coming their way and gauging their distance.

Troy curls his fingers in the links of the fence and leans back until the metal creaks.

“Wow, what’s got you panties in such a twist, Todd?”

Jason bites the inside of his cheek and gives a curt nod to a trio of girls who walk past, apparently having given up on the idea of a mile run.

“Look…Troy, if I’m gone too long Coach Avery will notice. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Never bothered you before,” Troy pokes him through the fence with an easy smile.

“Yeah, well. Things are different now.”

So different. Before it didn’t matter if Jason cut classes or not. Straight A’s didn’t buy you a ticket out of Crime Alley. But now…if he does well in school he might get to go to college, or get a job that doesn’t involve dropping to your knees behind a dumpster or making drops for the mob bosses. Maybe one day he’ll be a librarian or an English teacher like Mr. Hussein. Something with books would be nice.

“Yeah. Get adopted by some billionaire and now you’re too good to be seen with your old pal?” Troy sneers.

Jason winces, “It’s not like that, Troy!”

“Hey, no worries. I wouldn’t want to be seen with me neither. I guess all those times I helped you out, helped get your mom her meds didn’t mean nothing.”

Troy spits and starts to walk away. Something in Jason panics a little at that, because he _is_ grateful to Troy. He’s known Troy for as long as he can remember. Troy lived with his _abuelita_ in the apartment above theirs. Sometimes Jason would stay there when he came home from school to find the door locked, or when his parents started throwing things at each other. He’d practically grown up on Granny Lolo’s _ajiaco cubano_ . Troy had looked out for him even though he was four years older than Jason. He'd kept the big kids from pushing him around too much at school, and then when he'd dropped out and joined the LUG he'd made sure everyone knew Jason was not to be messed with. And when Jason’s mom had gotten real bad, Troy had helped him score for cheap. ‘Family discount’ he’d called it.

“ _No te vaya_!” Jason shouts after him, “Troy, stop! _Lo siento_ , really. I’m not avoiding you, I’ve just been really busy.”

“So?” Troy stops and calls out over his shoulder, “Take a break. Cut class and let’s catch up, have a smoke.”

Troy pulls a pack of Camels out of his jacket pocket and fishes one out. He wiggles it in his fingers like a dog treat.

Jason groans, fingers twitching, “Aw man, I’d kill for one of those.”

“What?” Troy asks incredulously, “You don’t smoke no more? _Coño carajo_. Who are you and what have you done with Jason Todd?”

“Bruce doesn’t approve. I dunno how but he keeps finding mine and tossing them out. He’s like one of those bomb sniffer dogs.”

Troy laughs, “Well, he can’t stop you now.”

Jason bites his lip.

“Fine. But after class. My lunch break is at 11:45, I’ll meet you back here then, okay?”

 

 

Jason feels like he’s about to fidget out of his skin all through math. He jiggles his leg up and down under his desk until the girl next to him glares. He squeezes his knee, forcing it still while he tries to focus on Mrs. Babbitt at the blackboard. He doesn’t absorb anything she says, but it’s okay, he’ll ask Dick to go over the chapter with him at home tonight. At some point his knee starts bouncing again without his permission.

As soon as the bell goes off he shoots out of his seat and snags his lunch box out of his locker, but instead of making a bee-line for the cafeteria, he turns off into the restroom. There’s a row of narrow windows along the top of the sidewall. Jason lets himself into the handicapped stall. If he climbs up on the handrail he can reach the window. It clearly hasn’t been opened in years and takes a few shoves before the it swings out. He pushes his lunch box through before wiggling through the ten inch gap himself. He drops lightly to his toes on the other side and creeps along the exterior wall in a crouch, brick clinging to his shirt until he reaches the baseball diamond. Troy is still there. He grins when he sees Jason making his way across the field to him.

“Catch,” Jason orders and swings his lunchbox to arc over the fence.

Then he claws his fingers through the hexagonal wires and hauls himself over. Troy slaps him on the shoulder and passes him the cigarette.

“Man, I didn’t think you’d actually show,” Troy says holding out a lighter with an ace etched into the side.

“I ain’t no liar,” Jason mutters around the cigarette between his lips, “I gotta be back in thirty though.”

“No problem-o. I just wanna catch up with ya, _camarón_.”

Jason takes a long pull on the filter and sighs, “Goddamn I’ve missed these.”

They walk a couple blocks to the cracked parking lot behind the Quickie Mart and sit down on a crumbling concrete bumper block. Jason watches Troy fiddle with his lunchbox from the corner of his eye before popping the latch. He pulls out a pink bottle and whistles.

“ _Mierda_. All-organic strawberry lemonade mixed with raw sugar,” he reads off the label, “You really are living the high life, this shit costs like five dollars a bottle.”

Jason bites the inside of his cheek.

“You can have it if you want,” he offers.

“Really?” Troy asks, already twisting the cap, “Hey thanks. What else you got in there? Caviar?”

Jason bites down on the cigarette to free his hands while he pulls out a small series of Tupperware containers.

“Uh looks like almonds, a tangerine, and a tuna fish sandwich.”

“What, no dessert?” Troy digs around looking under the icepack.

“Alfred is kind of a health nut,” Jason explains.

“Who the hell is Alfred?” Troy asks, bottle hanging loosely from his fingers.

“Oh, he’s the uh, he’s the butler.”

Troy looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his head, “Butler? _Dios mío_ , I knew Wayne was loaded, but a butler? For real?”

“For real,” Jason chuckles trying not to sound too embarrassed.

Troy takes a long pull on the lemonade almost finishing it off and shakes his head.

“So they taking good care of you?” he asks, suddenly serious, eyes penetrating.

Jason clears his throat, a little tight from the last drag and nods.

“Yeah, they’re… They’re good people. Bruce isn’t as wild and crazy as they make him out in the papers. He’s actually kind of quiet. Took me to a Gotham Knights game and the speedway too. Oh god, the cars, Troy. _The cars_. You would not believe what he has in his garage. And then Dick has a Spitfire he’s promised to take me out on. Oh, Dick is Bruce’s other kid. A little bit older than you. He’s really cool. It’s weird though. Like, there’s all these rules; I’ve got a curfew and a bed time and I can’t watch TV ‘til I’ve finished my homework. But it feels like it’s because they care? Not just so they can have something to yell at me about,” Jason rambles for a bit.

He stops when he notices Troy’s face. The older boy is hunched over, fingers pinched down hard on the glass ridges of the empty bottle. His lips are pressed tight and there’s a line between his eyebrows.

“So…how are things with you? Your family?” Jason asks gently.

Troy sets the bottle down on the blacktop with a clink and taps a knuckle against his lips, “Granny’s sick, yeah? Went to check on her last Friday and when she didn’t answer the door I knew something was wrong so I came in through the fire escape. She fell in the bathroom. Broke her wrist and cracked her hip real bad. Been there a day before I found her. Took her to the clinic and they said the bones will heal fine, right? Cause Granny’s strong like that, but now she’s got some kind of infection. Doctor Thompkins says we need to take her to the real hospital, but you know. Granny don’t wanna make a fuss and well, ain’t no way we can afford that.”

Jason stares at the smoldering butt in his hand for a long time before grinding it out next to him, leaving a streak of ash on the concrete.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Jason hangs his head, “Your _abuelita_ she…She’s a bomb-ass lady. I’m sure she’ll pull through. After all, someone’s gotta smack you round with a wooden spoon every once in a while.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Troy smirks at him, “You’re right. Everything’ll be okay. C’mon, _camarón_ , it’s time to go. Better get you back before you get in trouble, right?”

Troy extends his hand and Jason accepts it, lets it pull him to his feet. He’s surprised when Troy slings that same arm around his shoulder but doesn’t shrug it off. Surprise turns to dread when the grip tightens and Jason realizes Troy is guiding him not just to the sidewalk, but towards an innocuous van idling on the street a little further ahead. Jason digs in his heels and pivots trying to throw his elbow back into Troy’s ribs and twist free at the same time, but the older boy’s hand slides from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers digging in painfully and halting his motion. The side door of the van slides open. In desperation Jason stomps his heel down on the top of Troy’s foot and tries to jerk out of his grasp. He almost makes it, but Troy snags the collar of his shirt and yanks him back, choking him. Jason drops to his knees, thinking if he can just slide out of his shirt—he knows he can outrun Troy. But in the time it takes for him to squirm out of Troy’s hold, another arm, large and solid belonging to one of the men in the van wraps around his middle. Realizing he’s not getting away, Jason puts all his energy into making himself the loudest most difficult captive possible. He screams obscenities and flails his limbs wildly, arms and legs spread wide like a violent starfish. He clenches his fingers around the rusting metal of the van’s side when they try to wrestle him in the vehicle, doesn’t let go until one of the men grows impatient and anxious with his hollering and slams the door shut on his fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uh...tried to do the final edit of this while watching _Manos: Hands of Fate_ so there's a chance I did a real shit job because I was laughing so hard. Still, for supposedly being one of the worst movies ever made I still think Ed Wood's _Plan 9 from Outer Space_ is worse. Anyone else out there a fan of old B horror films? If so what are your favorites?
> 
> Anyways, this chapter featuring: Big Brother Dick doing some detecting. 
> 
> (If you stick out this one...next chapter is my fave... :D

“So Wally and Artemis are paired up to be our look-outs, right? But it’s a slow night, not much going on and we just deployed so they figure there’s a good couple hours before the team’s supposed to be making their way back through. And they start going at it, thinking no one’s going to notice, but they’ve forgotten Conner’s started developing super-hearing—oh yeah! Forgot to mention, Conner’s been gaining some new Kryptonian powers, which is pretty cool—anyway, so they forget he has super-hearing now…”

Barbara slaps a hand over her face, egging Dick to lean closer towards her over the wrought iron café table.

“Oh god, I see where this is going,” she sniggers helplessly behind her fingers.

“Exactly!” Dick crows, laughing as well, “So not only does poor Conner get an earful he wishes he could bleach out of his brain, but the poor guy is so shocked he forgets we’re all sharing a mental-link via Megan and accidentally starts broadcasting the whole thing over our brainwaves and—

Dick jumps, startled by the buzzing in his pocket. He takes a peek then pulls it out when he sees the name on the caller ID.

“Hey sorry,” he apologizes to Barbara, “It’s Alfred. I’m going to take this.”

Barbara waves him off in understanding, still struggling to reign in her mirth at the interrupted story.

“Hey, Alfie! What’s up?”

“ _I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon Master Richard, but is young Master Jason with you_?”

“Uh, no. No, I’m grabbing a—a coffee with Barbara. Why?” Dick stutters in alarm at the slight edge in the butler’s voice.

“ _Bollocks_.”

“Alfred, what’s wrong?” Dick asks feeling the beginnings of panic stir in his chest. Anything that has Alfred swearing is cause for alarm.

“ _Master Jason wasn’t here when I went to pick him up from school today. I was hoping you had perhaps picked him up for a day of playing ‘hooky’ and had merely forgotten to properly sign him out._ ”

Dick goes cold.

“Dick? What is it?” Barbara asks, concerned at his sudden rigidity.

“Are you still at the school Alfred?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Okay, stay there. I’m coming to meet you. I’m on my way right now,” he barks and hangs up.

“Dick, what’s going on?”

Dick turns to Barbara as he stands.

“It’s Jason. He’s missing. Alfie went to pick him up from school and he wasn’t there.”

Barbara frowns, “I hate to say it but... He’s run off before hasn’t he? Maybe he just—

“No,” Dick cuts her off, “He hasn’t done that for months. He was excited and happy yesterday. So either something happened at school that really upset him and I need to go find him anyway, or…”

He leaves the last bit unsaid. Dick knows being Bruce Wayne’s ward comes with its own set of dangers completely unrelated to the night job.

Barbara swallows and nods, “I’ll call my dad, he’ll get an APB ready to put out.”

Dick squeezes his keys in hand, feeling the jagged metal edge dig into his palm.

“Thank you, Babs,” he breathes and drops a kiss to her forehead, too frazzled to remember they’d agreed not to do that anymore, before he scoops up his helmet from the concrete and races to his bike.

Dick’s hindbrain must take over because he doesn’t recall zipping through the city – passing cars, making turns, stopping for red lights – suddenly he’s just there, pulling up in front of the school. A woman in a cardigan holding a clipboard tries to tell him he can’t park his bike on the front sidewalk but he ignores her and vaults up the steps three at a time. He bursts through the double-doors forgetting to restrain his strength while in his civilian identity. They slam into the walls, denting the plaster. It takes a second for him to locate the sign hanging from the ceiling pointing towards the administrative suite. He’s more careful with that door, though it still shuts loudly enough to startle the receptionist behind her desk. When he enters the principal’s office he’s met with the back of Alfred’s balding head. The butler stands and turns to meet him. Dick wraps his arms tightly around the old man, at once seeking and offering comfort. They step apart at a polite cough from the man behind the desk.

“Dick, this is Principal Johnson,” Alfred gestures to the man.

Dick’s first impression is less than kind. Principal Johnson is a slight man somewhere in his fifties with thinning hair and wire rimmed glasses. He looks ineffectual, not like a man prepared to take strong actions. Principal Johnson extends his hand and Dick finds himself studying it distastefully. It’s smooth and pale, without callouses except for on the forefinger where a pen would rest. It’s the kind of hand that belongs to a paper-shuffling, pencil-pusher. Dick remembers he’s supposed to shake and accepts it belatedly.

“Hello Mr. Grayson, I’m sorry we are meeting under these circumstances.”

Even his voice is bland. How on earth does this man wrangle hot-tempered teenagers day in and out?

Dick nods and tightens his grip a fraction before releasing the principal’s hand, “So catch me up to speed. How long has Jason been missing?”

“Mr. Todd was present for roll call in his homeroom with Mr. Preacher, P.E. first period with Coach Avery, and second period Math with Mrs. Babbitt. Jason is Lunch Group A, which has use of the cafeteria from 11:45 to 12:15. The cafeteria staff doesn’t remember seeing him today, but we serve over 800 students daily so it’s difficult for them to be sure. He was marked absent in his third and fourth periods,” Principal Johnson informs him steadily.

“Okay,” Dick taps the toe of his motorcycle boot against a carpet square nervously, “And what steps have been taken since then? There’s cameras in all the halls right? Has anyone reviewed the tapes yet?”

“Not yet. Security Officers Hodgkins and Grier are still sweeping the building and grounds. We’ve had instances before where a student is reported missing, only to be found over-sleeping a noon-time nap in the A/V room over the auditorium or in the dark room of the photography lab.”

Dick shakes his head adamantly, “No, that’s not Jay. He wouldn’t do that.”

The kid had a hard enough time sleeping in the manor tucked in bed behind locked doors and a multi-million dollar security system. According to Bruce he’d made it a full 76 hours before he’d finally conked out in the first days with them, before he’d grudgingly started to trust no one was going to hurt him. There was no way Jay would lower his guard, make himself vulnerable by taking a nap in an unsecure location surrounded by almost a thousand people. The idea is absurd.

“I understand,” Principle Johnson mollifies him, “But I want to rule that out completely before jumping to any conclusions. A missing student is a serious affair, but one that happens more often than you might think and it is usually the result of some benign mistake rather than anything sinister. Once Officers Hodgkins and Grier finish their sweep we will open Mr. Todd’s locker, submit the security footage to the police for review and then ascertain whether or not a missing persons report needs to be filed.”

Dick almost growls at that. The seconds are ticking by like precious grains of sand and the idea of waiting for the GCPD to come and analyze the tapes is excruciating. Alfred touches his hand, sensing his growing frustration.

“Master Dick, Principal Johnson has been very earnest and accommodating,” he says politely, but Dick recognizes it for the admonishment it is, “Before you arrived he asked me if I knew any friends of Master Jason’s that may have a clue to his whereabouts we could call. I thought you would be better suited to answer as he seems to share more details of his social life with you.”

“I—”

Dick starts to respond before realizing he’s never actually heard Jason mention having any friends. He’ll drop names on occasion; the kids he was teamed up with for a project in social studies, his lab partner in science, the girl Jason is crushing on if the way his ears turn pink when he talks about her is anything to go by. Rita? Or was it Rosa? But he can’t recall anyone that could be described as a friend. Jason’s never invited someone over to the manor, or gone to their house in exchange. That’s probably not a good thing, Dick realizes sadly. He knows Jason isn’t the social butterfly he is, but at thirteen he should have at least a couple kids at school he considers friends. Dick files it away as something to bring up with Bruce later. He shakes his head to clear those thoughts for now.

“No, I don’t. Sorry. He’s still pretty new though, I’m not sure he’s had time to make many yet,” he says, feeling like he should defend Jay against the disapproving look Principal Johnson is giving him.

He’s reminded of the time Headmaster Voorhees called him into her office for handspringing across the cafeteria tables at the Academy on a dare –it had all been in good fun until he over shot the last table and somersaulted into the soup bar. Maybe Principal Johnson isn’t as ineffectual as Dick first thought. His flat stare is making Dick’s palms sweat.

“Is there anyone else you can think of Jason would have left the school with? From outside of school perhaps?” Johnson coaxes.

If Jason is reticent in talking about his school peers, he’s absolutely close-lipped about the people he knew before Bruce took him in. Shit, this whole experience is making Dick uncomfortable realizing just how little he knows about his adoptive brother. Dick and Alfred exchange a look. Their silent conversation is interrupted by two men in uniform striding in with walkie-talkies at their hips.

“Ah, Officers Hodgkins and Grier,” Principal Johnson waves them over and introduces them, “This is Dick Grayson, Jason’s brother.”

Dick shakes their hands, squeezing a bit too tightly in his agitated state judging by Hodgkins’ wince.

Grier squares his shoulders, “School is all clear Mr. Johnson, didn’t come across the Todd kid.”

Dick bristles, disliking his flippant tone.

He fingers the phone in his pocket, “Alright, I’m calling Bruce. I want him to hear it from me first, before Gordon puts out the APB.”

“Commissioner Gordon? APB?” Grier balks, “Mr. Grayson I don’t mean any disrespect but I think you’re going overboard here.”

“Overboard? My twelve year-old kid brother has been missing for,” Dick checks his watch, “four hours! If anything I’m being pretty damn composed about all this.”

Grier rolls his eyes and slouches into a more relaxed posture, “Look, kids like Todd do this all the time. Nine times out of ten they’re just flexing their teenage rebellion. Chances are he’ll show back up in time for dinner.”

“Kids like him? What’s that supposed to mean?” Dick snarls.

“Offcier Grier, please show some decorum,” Principal Johnson hisses, calm composure finally breaking before turning back to Dick, “I believe Officer Grier is referring to the files Gotham Academy forwarded us upon his enrollment here. There were some disciplinary issues reported.”

“Jason was getting bullied there—he was defending himself! He’s a _good_ kid,” Dick stresses.

“And I have neither seen nor said anything to suggest the contrary, Mr. Grayson,” Johnson lifts his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“Are you of the opinion that Master Jason left here under his own will?” Alfred asks cautiously in the silence that follows.

The principal sighs, “Usually, I would agree with Officer Grier. However, being the son of such a high-profile personage, I think it’s best we progress from here as if Mr. Todd did not. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Officer Hodgkins if you would call the GCPD and start preparing the footage from the security cameras? And Mr. Pennyworth, if you’d follow me to Jason’s locker? Officer Grier, there should be a bolt cutter on the bottom shelf of the utility closet. Please meet us there. Mr. Grayson, you may have to go outside to make your phone call. This building has a steel roof, reception is poor.”

Dismissed, they trickle out into the hall in a single file line. Dick splits away from the others and heads back outside. He doesn’t really need to go outside for the call. A steel roof is no challenge to the tech Bruce equipped all of their phones with - never know when you might get trapped in a collapsed subway tunnel after all. He does however, need to for his state of mind. The white walls and linoleum floor feel like they’re closing in around him. If he doesn’t get some fresh air he’s going to launch his fist into that idiot Grier’s face. His feet pound down the cement steps, his ingrained light-footed stealth thrown aside in frustration. He reaches his bike and leans against it, needing the stability. He forces deep breaths until the shake in his hands evens out before digging his phone out of his leather jacket.

Speed dial one, _Boss Man_. It rings twice before Bruce picks up.

“ _Dick? I’m in a meeting, is this important_?”

The words Dick needs to say get stuck in his throat.

Bruce must hear the hitch on the other end because his voice sharpens, “ _Dick, what is it?_ ”

“It’s Jason,” he says, raking his fingers through his hair with his free hand, “Alfie—Alfred came to pick him up from school and he wasn’t there. No one’s seen him since noon. I’m here at the school now with Alfred. They’re reviewing the security camera footage and checking his locker now.”

The silence stretches on for so long Dick wonders if Bruce hung up on him, but then, “ _I’m leaving work right now. Do you want me to meet you there? Otherwise I’m going straight to the station to speak with Gordon_.”

“I was with Barbara when Alfred called, she’s just waiting for the word and she’ll have her dad put out the APB. So, they’re ready there. Go on to the police station. If someone took him they may call to ask for a, a ransom or something. Alfred and I have got it covered here,” Dick’s voice cracks.

“ _Dick, you know we’ll find him. I’m not going to let anything happen to him, and I know you won’t either_.”

Dick nods, then laughs brokenly when he remembers Bruce can’t see him. Part of him wants to scream at Bruce for making promises he can’t keep. The other part of him is overwhelmingly grateful to Bruce for saying what he needed to hear.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Dick takes the hand out of his hair and grinds the palm into his eye, trying to drive away the prickle building there. When he pulls it back, colored dots dance across his vision. He blinks them away and notices the trio huddled together trying not to look like they’re watching. They clearly lack any kind of espionage training. He recognizes one of them as the woman in the cardigan who tried to reprimand his parking job earlier. The other two are men; a Caucasian male in a t-shirt and sweats and a tall black man.

“Hey, Bruce, I’m going to go do a little detecting. Give me a call as soon as you hear anything and I’ll do the same. Bye.”

Dick slides the phone back in his pocket and approaches the gaggle of adults.

“Hey, I’m Jason’s brother, Dick,” he introduces himself.

Cardigan’s eyes bug out of her head. She probably recognizes him from the gossip rags.

The men appear a little less star-struck, though the one in sweats is quick to offer his hand, “Oh! Hey! I’m Greg. I mean, Coach Avery. Greg Avery. Jason’s in my first period. Have they found him yet?”

Dick shakes his hand; he’s been doing that a lot today considering he’s not at a Wayne function.

“No, not yet. They’re checking his locker and the camera tapes now.”

Greg ducks his head, “Oh god, I’m real sorry to hear that. He’s a great kid. Told me he wanted to try out for—

“The baseball team,” Dick finishes for him.

Greg frowns, “Yeah. Well, uh this is Denise Cross; one of the guidance counselors, and Martin Hussein; English.”

“I have Jason in my fourth period class,” the dark man informs him in a bass deep enough to rival Bruce’s.

“So, do they have any idea where he might’ve gone?” Greg asks, “Grier said—

Dick’s hackles rise but Martin beats him to the punch, “Officer Grier is as incompetent as he is lazy. He’s convinced whichever possibility takes the least work and lets him go home earliest is the only one. I told him Jason wouldn’t miss class today by choice.” Martin turns to face Dick fully, “I asked Jason if I could read his Outsiders essay to the class today as an example of an A paper. He was very excited. He wouldn’t cut class.”

Dick’s hands twitch at his thighs. He wants to hug the man. He gives him a watery-eyed nod instead and hopes the man senses his appreciation. No wonder Jason loves English if he has this guy in his corner.

“No," he says, answering Greg’s question, “Nothing yet. I was hoping I could ask you all some questions though, if that’s okay.”

There’s a round of sympathetic assents. Denise even gives him a soft comforting squeeze at his elbow.

“Greg, did you notice if anything was off with Jason today? Was he acting confrontational or upset?”

Greg bites his lip, forehead wrinkling, “Not that I can think of. He seemed in pretty good spirits this morning. Put in a killer time of the mile run, third in his class. That’s when I suggested he join the track team but he mentioned baseball. After that, I’m not sure. I was busy clocking in the other kids’ times.”

Well that didn’t help at all.

“You might want to ask Lorraine,” Denise pipes up.

“Who’s Lorraine?” Dick asks.

“Oh, Lorraine is Jason’s math teacher. She has him second period. We were talking in the teacher’s lounge and she mentioned he was really quiet in class today. She said she noticed because usually he’s raising his hand every five minutes asking her to repeat things, but today she said he was quiet. Acted like he didn’t hear her when she called on him. Which, trust me, it’s impossible not to hear Lorraine.”

“Voice like a harpy,” Greg adds.

“Don’t say that,” Denise snaps back at him half-heartedly. “She’s deaf in one ear she can’t help it, she doesn’t know she’s yelling all the time,” she explains and ticks her head back towards the building, “I can take you to her if you want. I think she’s still in her classroom. She’s pretty upset about the whole thing, being the last person to see Jason and all.”

“I’d like that, thank you,” Dick replies sincerely. 

His mind churns away in detective mode. So Jason had been fine for the most of P.E. but clearly distracted in math. What had happened between the two classes? Maybe something in the halls while Jason walked from one to the other? If so, hopefully the cameras had captured it. Or something happened during P.E. out of Greg’s sight. 

“But first, Greg, you said Jason’s class was doing the mile today. Did you run them around in gym or?”

“Not on a day like today! It was way too gorgeous outside to keep them cooped up in cinderblock. I had them do laps around the school grounds. Why? Is that important?”

“So you didn’t have eyes on them the whole time?” Dick asks.

Greg shifts uncomfortably, “Well, no. But the grounds are fenced in. It’s never been a safety concern before.”

“Can you walk me around it?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Greg agrees.

Dick follows the coach away from the others towards the fence line. Greg narrates amicably as they walk the perimeter, pointing out which windows belong to which classrooms, how much damage the hail storm did to the cafeteria roof last year, how much they had to fundraise to overhaul the baseball diamond. As soon as Greg points it out Dick sprints towards it. The ten-foot space between the back of the bleachers and the fence is the only section of the grounds not within direct sight of at least one classroom window. It’s also on the opposite side of the main building from where Greg had set up the start line. A blind spot. 

Dick crouches, getting close to the ground so he can scan for any little clue. There are a few soda bottle caps that have been ground into the dirt, old ticket stubs, a myriad of partial shoe impressions, a crumpled receipt bleached by the sun, and four cigarette butts about a foot away on the other side of the fence. His eyes keep coming back to the butts. It’s not exactly uncommon litter. They aren’t even the first he’s seen on the school grounds. He wonders what brand they are, but he can’t tell from the filters alone.

Jason likes Marlboro menthols for some godforsaken reason. He remembers the first time he’d caught the boy smoking them. He’d shouted in surprise, in turn startling Jason, who was leaning precariously out the window so as not to get any smoke in the bedroom. He’d managed to snag Jason by the collar before the kid splatted onto the brick patio below, thanks to his Nightwing reflexes. Dick had almost needed a cigarette himself after that. He’d then confiscated the carton and handed it off to Alfred feeling rather proud of himself for being a good big brother. Until Alfred had sighed and informed him, ‘ _Master Dick, if you ever find yourself on the wrong side of a cell door, have no fear. Master Bruce and I have confiscated enough of this particular contraband from the young master to last you a life-time for bribes and currency_.’ Then it strikes him, why these cigarette butts are bothering him. They aren’t faded or completely crushed. The ash from where they’ve been smeared out is still dark. These are fresh. Dick can’t imagine Jason skipping school on a lark, but he can imagine him cutting lunch to sneak a smoke.

“Hey, Greg. What’s in that direction?” he asks, pointing through the chain link.

“Ah, a kebab shop and a Quickee Mart.”

Dick’s hauling himself up the fence and dropping to the other side before the athletics coach finishes speaking.

“I’m going to go ask if anyone there has seen Jay,” Dick explains, “If you run into Alfie, I mean, Mr. Pennyworth tell him I’ll be back in a couple.”

 

 

 

He shows Jason’s picture to the man behind the counter at the kebab place. It's one Barbara snapped of the two of them deep in a game of Mario Kart on the SNES in the den. Jason’s brow is furrowed and the tip of his tongue is sticking out in concentration. Dick doesn’t show the next picture in the set, which captures Dick getting clocked in the face with a controller. Jason may be great at talking smack, but he isn’t very good at video games. Or losing gracefully. Granted, Dick isn’t the best at winning either. He may have been too enthusiastic in celebrating his victory. After Jason had stormed off, Alfred had, in his terrifyingly mild way reminded Dick that Jason had not grown up with the same privileges he had. 

Then Babs had rolled her eyes and translated, “ _He’s never owned a game system before, probably never had a chance to play. Of course he’s not going to be good at them, dummy_.” That was just one of many nights that ended with Dick chasing Jason down to apologize for some perceived slight. He’d gotten better at reading Jason’s insecurities since then, but it’s not an exact science. Still, it is one of his favorite pictures of the two of them.

The man at the kebab place shakes his head.

So does the clerk at the Quickee Mart. His nametag reads Raoul.

“Sorry, I didn’t see him come in. Is he missing or something?”

“Yeah,” Dick sags and starts to leave.

“Well, hey. I didn’t see anything. But I did hear something. I remember because I was going to call the cops. There was a lot of shouting few hours back. I thought maybe there was a fight going on outside. When I stuck my head out the lot was empty though,” Raoul shrugs, “Sorry. I don’t know if that’s helpful.”

“No, actually it is. Thank you,” Dick says with feeling, bells on the door jangling as it closes behind him.

He jogs to the cracked lot behind the building, pauses when his heart skips painfully in his chest, then surges forward again. Jason’s lunch box is lying on the asphalt, upended. There’s no doubt it’s his. Dick remembers the night he’d asked Jason who his favorite hero was: Batman or Nightwing, just to needle Bruce. Jason had tilted his head to the side as if in grave contemplation then quipped, “ _I dunno, they both kinda seem like douchenozzles. Wonder Woman though, she kicks ass!_ ” Dick had laughed so hard he peed himself (just a little) at the expression on Bruce’s face. The lunchbox had appeared magically and proudly on the counter before breakfast the next day. Dick suspects Alfred, just as he does for that Superman coffee mug that appeared in the cabinets three years ago which Bruce has yet to drink from. In fact, Dick suspects that Alfred may enjoy teasing the man even more than he does. 

Dick stares at the stupid yellow “W” emblazoned over the front and drops to his knees. Jason loves this goddamn lunchbox. There’s no way he’d dump it here like this. Almonds and more cigarette butts are scattered over the pavement. An untouched tuna fish sandwich is spoiling in the afternoon sun, a bottle of the lemonade tipped over on its side a few feet away.

Dick takes pictures of the area then bends over and examines the glass carefully. There’s no sticky spot like there would be if the bottle tipped and spilled. It's possible Jason was the one to finish it off, but the oily hints of fingerprints around the neck look too large to be his. Dick carefully picks the bottle up with the tips of his fingers and packs it back in the lunchbox.

His thumb is already swiping to unlock his phone when it goes off in his hand. _Boss Man_.

“Hey Bruce, Jason didn’t run off—

“ _I know_.”

“You know?”

“ _The kidnappers just called my office phone with the ransom demand_.”

Oh.

“Are you at the office?”

“ _No, I have the line forwarded. I’m here at the precinct with Commissioner Gordon_.”

“And?”

“ _It wasn’t long enough to get a trace_.”

Dick swears and takes a breath, “Okay. It’s okay. I have a lead. I found Jason’s lunchbox a couple blocks from the school. I might be able to pull some prints. Alfred and I will run them at the cave. You stay there and look like the concerned parent. Do whatever you need to do. I’ve got this, alright?”

Dick can hear the noise of the station in the background– footsteps on tiled floors, the scuff of chairs getting shoved back, a phone ringing in the distance.

“ _Thank you, Dick_.”

“You’re welcome. I’m going to bring him home Bruce.”

“ _I trust you will. Oh, and Dick?_ ”

“Yes?”

“ _Be safe_ ,” the line clicks dead.

Dick pockets the phone and stares at the lunchbox, dented in one corner now. These fuckers have no idea what’s coming for them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few things I'm really nervous about posting in this...but, I'd like to see how y'all respond before issuing preemptive apologies. 
> 
> On the fun side, writing is _so_ educational. And leads to many fun conversations like:
> 
> "Hey ______, you used to do a lot of drugs right?"  
> "Uhhhh, yeah?"  
> "Did you ever do heroin?"  
> "What! Why?"  
> "I need to know how you do heroin."  
> "Oh god! DON'T touch that stuff! Wtf are you thinking? Why do you even want to know?"  
> " _OH!_ No! I don't want to do heroin or anything, god, no. Sorry, I'm writing a story."  
>  "Oh, whew. Okay."  
> "Haha, yeahhhhhhhh. So you ever do heroin?"  
> "Ahhh..." drops voice to whisper, " _What do you need to know?"_

 

 

“Fuck you! Let me go, you _hijos de puta_! You think you’re _hombres grandes_ for fucking grabbing a little kid? Well, _mamahuevo_ , assholes! Your _madres_ would be fucking ashamed of you! They’d wish they’d have swallowed you, you overgrown abortions,” Jason screams.

“ _Oh my god, will someone please shut that kid up?_ ” someone groans on the other side of the thin plaster wall.

They tossed him in here what feels like hours ago, into a tiny bare space he’s pretty sure is a closet. There are no windows. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. He had inch-wormed his way to the wall as soon as he heard the snick of the lock; wrists and ankles duct-taped together, and pushed himself up the peeling paint to flip the switch with his shoulder. The bulb had flickered once, popped, and left him in darkness except for the line of light beneath the door. He’s fucking bored of this shit.

The monotony abruptly ends when the door bursts in and a scruffy white guy in paint-smeared jeans moves towards him. Jason recognizes him as the one who slammed the van door on his hand. It's a throbbing mess of pain and heat now, fingers purple and swollen. He thinks at least three are broken. Troy follows the man in looking pale and shaky under his tan, hovering a half-step behind. Jason growls and lunges forward.

“Especially you Troy! You’re the biggest _cabrón_ of all! If you had just asked! If you had just fucking asked for help I could’ve—fuck, is Granny Lolo even sick or did you make that up too you piece of shit?” Jason’s voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.

Troy doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Don’t listen to him kid, brat’s just trying to save his own ass. He don’t mean it,” the man says with an accent that makes Jason think he’s from somewhere down south. Texas maybe. Who knows, Jason’s good with languages but that’s different than telling the difference between a Tennessee twang and a Texan drawl. Two places he’s never been. He’s never been anywhere outside of Gotham.

Jason takes a breath to start up another stream of vitriol when the man jerks him up by the collar and throws him back down. With his hands bound Jason can’t stop the back of his head from bouncing against the floor, hard. He goes limp for a second, long enough for the man to take advantage of his dazed state and hook two fingers between his teeth. The fingers pull his jaw down and a balled up rag that tastes like motor oil is shoved between his teeth. He tries to push it back out with his tongue but the man calls over his shoulder, “Hey, Avilés, gimme that bandana of yours.”

Jason glares at his ‘friend,’ trying his best to project anger and the promise of revenge rather than the ache of betrayal he’s feeling, but Troy refuses to look at him, keeping his eyes glued to his shoes as he hands over the patterned piece of cloth.

“Alright, let’s see how loud you are now you little howler monkey,” the man says as he ties off the gag.

Jason gives a final bray of protest before the man stands and gives him a kick in the ribs. Troy shuffles back out, leaving him to the mercy of his cohort, looking like he’s on the verge of tears even though Jason’s the one getting the shit kicked out of him. The asshole rams his toes into Jason’s side a few more times for good measure. Jason can’t do anything but curl up pathetically around his vulnerable belly and glower up from the floor. Once the man finally leaves, door locking again behind him, Jason squeezes his eyes closed. He’s not scared of these assholes. He’s not scared. _He’s not_.

He’s had a pretty good idea of what’s happening ever since they pulled him into that van. He knows Bruce’s money makes him an easy target for ransom. What he doesn’t know is if Bruce is the kind of guy who will pay it. He thinks about sitting in the dugout box next to Bruce watching the Gotham Knights play the Metropolis Monarchs, guzzling down chili dogs and cheese fries and soda until his stomach was round and tight against his shirt. He thinks about the stupid foam finger he’d asked Bruce to buy him lying on top of the bookshelf in his room. He thinks about the Knights cap he hadn’t asked for but Bruce had gotten him anyway. And he feels awful about it but… He hopes Bruce is the kind of person to pay up. He seems like he would be. He seems like he enjoys having Jason around, not as a publicity or charity stunt, but for real.

Then Jason thinks about the fights he got into at the Academy, the lamp he busted, the window he broke, and a thousand other little ways he’s failed and he’s not so sure anymore. Fuck, he decides he doesn’t even care if Bruce likes him or not –maybe the man will pay just because he has so much money it won’t make a difference to him. Jason wonders how much they’re asking for. Oh god, what if they’re asking for guns or something? He knows Wayne Enterprises works with the military sometimes, probably designing laser beam cannons for space or some shit. Bruce definitely wouldn’t pay then, because as much as Bruce may like (or pretend to like) him, Jason knows he isn’t worth that.

His eyes start to burn and water. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He should have never let himself get comfortable. Good things don’t happen to him. Of course it was gonna end with Jason right back here; lying bruised and beaten in the closet of some empty garage in Crime Alley. He shouldn’t be crying over the inevitable, but he’d liked his new life. He liked Bruce asking him how his day at school went. He liked the way Alfred cut his sandwiches into triangles and not having to worry about whether he’d find something to eat that day. He liked Dick taking him out for ice cream, even if it meant he had to put up with the older boy’s teasing. He’d been happy at Wayne Manor and fuck these assholes for taking him away from there!

Jason sniffs and sits up with renewed intent. These fuckers are either going to kill him or they won’t, and it has everything to do with how the ransom deal goes down and nothing to do with him. He’s going to make them as miserable as he can while he’s stuck in this hellhole. Jason scooches forward on his butt and kicks his feet against the door. He pulls his legs in and lashes out again, over and over. Just because they’d gagged him doesn’t mean he's gonna be quiet.

 

***

 

Dick watches the loading screen with single-minded focus. He swears the green bar is mocking him with the pace it’s crawling across the screen. The mug of coffee he carried down with him into the cave earlier has gone cold. It sits forgotten off to the side, only half finished. He doesn't need the caffeine anyways, he's practically thrumming. Mind swirling with over-stimulation, body begging to leap into action. Alfred had forced him when they got home from the school to sit and have a cuppa under the pretense of taking time to organize their thoughts instead of charging ahead willy-nilly. Dick had submitted because it was clear the older man was trying to draw some comfort and order out of the chaos of the day. So he’d sipped on his coffee and watched Alfred sip on his tea until the butler cleared away the service and announced he needed to finish icing young Master Jason’s cherry-cola cake.

An electronic chime jolts Dick out of his thoughts. They have a hit. Dick stares at the screen in confusion. The face looking back at him belongs to a kid, a teenager just a couple years younger than himself. A quick glance through Troy Avilés rap sheet, although impressively long for someone his age, convinces Dick they are not dealing with a criminal mastermind here. Troy Avilés is distressingly small time. Most of his charges are possession with intent to sell, though there are a couple assault and robbery charges thrown in for good measure. A photo of a tattoo attached to his juvie record aligns him with the LUG though he’s probably too low on the chain to be close with any of the major players. Dick is missing something. Something important.

Dick tugs at his hair, running the strands between his fingers. Dick knows who he is. His strengths in the field are stealth, combat, and team building. He can read a battlefield and formulate a strategy to match. He’s decent enough at gathering clues and deducing likelihoods thanks to his training, but he is not Bruce. He is not the Great Detective with a capital ‘G.’ Dick laces his hands behind his neck and groans up at the ceiling. It’s been years since he asked for Bruce’s help on a case. Even the idea of asking makes his blood spit and boil and his cheeks burn…

But upstairs there is a man icing a cake for a little boy he loves who has gone missing, and there is nothing in this universe that’s going to keep Dick from bringing him home. Especially not his own goddamn pride. Dick runs his tongue between his teeth, takes a breath, and hits speed dial one.

“Hey B-man.”

“ _Dick? Hold on one second_ ,” Bruce answers then pauses, “ _Excuse me Commissioner, it’s my son, Dick. I’m going to step outside to take this_.”

Dick waits until Bruce follows up with a terse, “ _Alright, continue_ ,” to speak his part.

“Those prints I told you about? Well, I got a hit. For a Troy Avilés. 17 years old, small time drug dealer for the LUG. This kid’s prints were on a bottle I found in Jason’s lunch. His juvie records list his last known address at Unit D, 1064 Rosenheath Street.”

“ _And?_ ”

Crap. Dick squeezes his eyes closed and licks his lips, trying not to feel too much like a failure.

“That’s it, B. That’s all I’ve got. I was hoping you might know more. Has the GCPD dug anything up?’

Bruce grunts on the other end, “ _They were able to use traffic cameras near the Quickee Mart to identify a possible vehicle of interest. A 1997 Ford Econoline with stolen tags was captured at three intersections in the nearby area from 12:07 to 12:19_.”

“Stolen tags, great,” Dick carps, “That will get us real far. Have they called again?”

“ _Once. To give us a drop-off location and time. Oh and to raise the ransom_.”

Raise the ransom?

“Huh, how much were they asking for?”

“ _Five million_.”

“And now?”

“ _Twenty_.”

Dick quirks his head to the side, “That’s a big jump.”

“ _Indeed._ ”

“Do you… Does this feel professional to you?” Dick asks.

“ _No_ ,” Bruce snorts, “ _When you first said LUG I thought perhaps this was cartel related. The Colombians have really been perfecting the art of ransom and reaping the rewards the past five years, but this doesn’t fit. It lacks finesse. The cartels would have tried to scare me off from speaking with the cops. They would have demanded weaponry alongside the money. This is clumsy in comparison. You said the Avilés boy’s residence is on Rosenheath_?”

“Uh yeah.”

“ _That’s in the Narrows. Its possible he knew Jay when he lived in Crime Alley. Has he moved recently? The name sounds familiar_.”

Dick scrolls through the files on the computer.

“Uhh. When he was arrested for possession three years ago his address was listed 3302 Park Avenue, Apartment 402,” Dick rattles off.

It’s not a gasp exactly from the other end, but a sharp inhalation of breath.

“What? What is it B?”

“ _Jason used to live in 301. That’s where I found him. The building was condemned by then, but they must have been neighbors before that. Jason knew Troy. Probably felt safe around him. Troy would have been able to lure him away from the school._ ”

Dick’s fingers clench imagining what Jason must have felt when his old neighbor, and probably one-time friend was the one to hand him over like a lamb to slaughter.

“ _Dick? Dick? Are you still there?_ ”

Dick’s fingers fly across the keyboard.

“Yeah, no worries. I’m still here. I’m looking at the city records, and while Troy might live on Rosenheath, the lease is under the name Dolores Costa. I’m going to go have a conversation with Señora Costa and see if she knows what Troy has been getting into. I’ll call you when I have more. Bye Bruce.”

 

***

 

“Okay, you little shit! I have had it up to fucking here with you!” the asshole who gagged him screams and throws open the door Jason’s been kicking at for the last hour or so.

He straddles Jason and grabs him by the hair. Jason’s eyes go wide and a prickle of fear shoots down his spine. Maybe he had miscalculated. Maybe he had pushed too far and this guy _really_ is going to fucking kill him right here. Troy rushes in, hot on his accomplice’s heels.

“Al, stop! Everyone promised they wouldn’t hurt him, that’s the only reason I agreed to this! It’s not part of the plan, remember?”

Al scowls at Troy and hisses, “I ain’t gonna hurt him, I’m just gonna shut him up for a while.”

Al’s hand leaves Jason’s hair to fish inside his pocket. He digs out a black bag that he sets to the side and unzips. Jason twists his head and watches in mounting anxiety as Al pulls out a plastic spoon, syringe, lighter, shoelace, and a small baggie of tar. Jason yells into the gag and squirms frantically. He looks desperately to Troy who’s still hanging in the doorway.

Troy swallows, face ashen, “Hey, Al, _no hagas esto por favor_. He’s just a _niño_.”

“I don’t give a shit if he’s a nino, pinto, or Santa Mario. He’s giving me a headache with all his ruckus.”

Troy takes a step forward and grabs Al by the shoulder, “You’re scaring him. His mama died from an overdose. Leave him alone and I’ll make sure he stays quiet, okay?”

Al throws up his elbow, forcing Troy off, “Yeah? And how you gonna do that, huh? Now back the fuck off or I’m gonna tell Manuel all about this. How you tried to make five mill under his nose and not cut him in… Yeah, I thought so. Now get me a goddamn bottle of water.”

Al dips the spoon into the baggie and pulls it back, a tic-tac size dose clinging to the tip. Troy returns with a water bottle and tips his hand to pour out a capful. Jason screams into the shop rag and bucks wildly. His feet catch Troy in the shins and spill the water.

“Fuck!” Al yells, “López, get your ass in here and hold this kid down!”

Another person shoves their way into the packed space. López is stout with broad shoulders and too much gel in his hair. He kneels down across Jason’s thighs and allows Al to ease off before wrapping his hands around Jason’s biceps and pushing them down against the floor. Jason watches Al swirl powder and water in the spoon, then wave the flame of the lighter over the mixture. He shrieks in panic when the tip of the needle sinks beneath the surface. No, no, no! This is not happening. Images of his mom cold on the bathroom floor flash through his mind. Oh god, he doesn’t want to end up like that. He doesn’t want to be an empty-eyed shell. He doesn’t want to die.

Troy balks as well, “ _Jesucristo_ , Al! At least use a fucking filter!”

Al rolls his eyes but relents. He shoves a piece of gauze down in the bowl of the spoon before pulling the plunger back, drawing the amber tinted solution into the syringe.

“Fine, you happy now?” Al grumbles.

He shuffles back over to Jason and leans over him. He traces a finger down Jason’s arm and doesn’t bother tying a tourniquet or tapping for veins, they’re already raised from López’s vise-like grip. Jason screams when the point pierces through his skin, soaking his gag with more spit. A small plume of red spirals back into the liquid in the chamber. A wave of warmth rushes through him. Like he’s sinking into a soft mattress or a warm bath or…he feels good. The pain in his hand tapers off and…

“ _Mierda!_ How much did you give him, Al? He’s nodding out! Get the fucking gag out before he chokes on it!”

His neck lolls back, skull cradled in someone’s hands and he can breath easier. Three faces float over him. Troy’s looks worried. A thumb swipes at the saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth.

“ _El chico tiene una boca bonita. Parece familiar. Es el puto que trabajaba en Park y 12th??_ ”

“Shut the fuck up López! _No sabes de lo que hablas_ ”

“López, you put your pinga down so many throats how do you remember one from the other, huh?”

“ _Aléjense de él!_ Both of you! You wanted him to be quiet. He’s quiet now, so fuck off!”

Jason listens to them argue back forth for a while, voices sliding between his ears then fading off. A rough hand encircles his. Not the busted one. That’s considerate of them. He tries to force his eyes to focus for a moment on the figure left looking down at him. He’s happy to find its Troy and not one of the others.

“ _Dios mío_ , Jason. _Lo siento, lo siento mucho_. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, _lo juro_. You gotta believe me. Granny Lolo really is sick and I didn’t know what to do and this all started out…we were just joking around, I didn’t think they were really gonna… But I screwed up. _La jodí_ , and I said I used to know you and everything just got out of control. I won’t let them hurt you anymore, okay? We’ll let you go as soon as we get the money and you can go right back to living in that big fancy mansion and hating my guts, okay?”

Jason wants to tell him its fine, not to worry, because he feels… Awesome. But the words don’t form in his mouth and he can’t convince his head to nod and he’s having a really hard time keeping…his eyes…open…

 

***

 

After years of dealing with the Rogues and alien invaders and villainous metas with unknown powers, taking down street thugs with delusions of grandeur is almost painfully easy. They’ve holed up in a garage owned by Avilés’ cousin. Dick can see the glow of a light in the upstairs office from his rooftop perch across the street. They’ve taped papers over the glass, but not neatly and there are small slivers of light escaping around the edges. Two big Rottweiler’s prowl amongst towers of tires in the fenced in lot but there's no actual security system otherwise. Amateurs. The dogs are of no consequence. He doesn’t plan on even touching the ground tonight. 

It would be better if he had a definite headcount before he goes charging in, but based on the size of the building alone he cant imagine there being anymore than a half dozen. Causing a distraction to draw some of them out and split their numbers briefly crosses his mind, but he quickly dismisses it. There’s no way to do so without putting the kidnappers on their guard. He’d rather blindside six unprepared men than face off against three ready and waiting for him.

With that decided, Dick rolls his shoulders and hops lightly on his toes, shaking the tension out of his body. He loosens his escrima sticks in their sheaths and taps the comm in his ear.

“Penny-One, this is Nightwing. I’ve reached the garage and suspected location of the kidnappers and their hostage. Engaging in three, two, one.”

Dick takes careful aim with his grappling gun and sinks the anchor into the brick just over the half-assed blacked out window, then takes a running leap and swings through the air. He crashes through the window feet first, plowing into two individuals right off the bat. The heel of his boot catches the first in the jaw and takes her out of the game before it even begins. Dick rolls off the second, who cushioned his grand entrance and slams one escrima into his sternum and the other across his forehead. Two down, three to go, Dick counts as he slides up into a crouch. He eyes the men left standing; a scraggly man in stained jeans, a heavy-set man with too much gel in his hair, and Troy Avilés. Dick ignores the teenager. He’s too goggle-eyed to present a threat at the moment and focuses on the other two, who now have guns drawn on him.

The one who looks like he just walked off a construction site snarls, “López get the kid!” while keeping his piece leveled on Dick.

López hesitates at first, and then hurries towards a narrow door set on the far wall, apparently confident enough in his partner to turn his back on Dick. That's a mistake. Dick hurls one escrima directly at the back of López’s head sending him crashing to the floor. He ducks gracefully to the side of the shot the scraggly man squeezes off. Then Dick slides inside his guard and takes him to the ground with a well-placed kick to the knee and thwack to his neck. The man’s gun goes skittering across the floor. Dick sees the teenager’s eyes dart to it.

“Don’t even think about it kid,” he warns, “I’m not even winded yet. You’d be out before you took two steps.”

Dick drops down to one knee on the small of Scraggle McScraggleson’s back and zipties his wrists and his ankles for good measure. He looks around, assessing the damage. López looks to be out cold, as well as the woman he first collided with. The one he hit across the forehead is starting to groan. Dick zipties him next then wipes his hands on his thighs and stalks toward the teen. Troy presses himself up against the wall, eyes wide.

“ _Mierda_. You’re… You’re Nightwing. Oh fuck.”

“Yeah. ‘ _Oh fuck_ ,’ is right. Where is he Troy? The boy. Is he in there?” Nightwing barks, stabbing his finger at the closet door.

Troy’s head jerks up and down as if at the whim of some sadistic puppet-master.

“And when I open that door, how am I going to find him, Troy? Will I be leaving you sad excuses for criminals here all nice and neat for the cops to pick up, or are they going to have to wheel you out in pieces?”

It’s an empty threat, but Dick’s not above scaring the crap out of this teenage dirt bag at the moment.

“I—I tried to keep him safe from the others. Really! We were never going to really hurt him,” Troy stutters.

“That’s not an answer,” Dick growls, leaning forward with his escrima stick against Troy’s windpipe.

“He’s fine! _Lo juro por Dios,_ a little banged up, but he’s fine! How… How did you know he was here?”

“Because I asked your Grandma, Troy. Sweet lady, a little handsy, but sweet. She was very eager to sell you out when I told her you’d kidnapped a little boy. In fact, she gave me a list of all the places she thought you and your friends might be hanging out at. It wasn’t hard finding the right place after that; you don’t hide your tracks very well. Oh, and your Grandma wanted me to tell you that’s she’s very disappointed in you, and that’s not how she raised you.”

“ _Jesucristo, mátame ahora_.”

Dick has no idea what that means. He doesn’t really care. He knees Troy in the gut and strikes him hard across the temple. Dick lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding and pushes his hair back. Once everyone’s zipped to his satisfaction (he doesn’t want any surprises when they’re trying to leave) he treads purposefully over López’s body and stands in front of the narrow door. His gloved fingers linger on the handle for a moment then pull it open. Light from the room behind him spills into the dark cramped space.

“ _Oh no, Jason_ ,” Dicks breathes, then catches himself, “You’re Jason right? Jason Todd?”

Jason gives a weak nod from where he’s curled up in the corner of the closet. Dick takes that as permission to move forward, but halts when the boy cringes away from him. Dick blinks behind the lenses trying to clear his eyes, it’s a bitch crying in a mask that’s glued to your face. He raises both arms slowly, palms out showing his empty hands.

“Hi Jason. I’m Nightwing. I heard you were in trouble, I’m here to help you.”

Dick inches forward. The closer he gets he can see the shivers rippling through his brother’s body and the lazy way those baby blues are slipping in and out of focus. He has to swallow down the anger that rises, can’t let it show on his face. He doesn’t want to scare Jason more.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay. I need to see if you’re hurt. Is it okay if I come in?”

Another nod. Dick kneels down next to Jason’s small body. If he thought he was angry before, then he has no name for the emotion burning inside him now. The corners of Jason’s mouth are crusted with blood and raw looking, as if a gag had cut into the delicate skin there. His wrists and ankles are duct taped together, and the fingers of his left hand stick out at odd angles. Dick’s hand slides to his hip and hovers over the hidden pocket full of wingdings there. He should cut Jason free and skedaddle the both of them out of there right now. It would be the right thing to do, the smart thing to do… But a couple of concussions and some busted ribs are too good for the people who did this. In all his years working the spandex, Dick’s never felt like this before. He’s worked far grislier cases, but none of them have inspired this level of hate eating at him. His hand drops away.

“I’m going to be right back. I’m not leaving you. I’m coming right back and then I will cut you loose and take you home, alright? There’s just one more thing I need to do,” Dick apologizes and turns back to the room before he can see the expression that crosses Jason’s face. 

He can’t stand the idea of seeing fear or abandonment there. He stalks over to the trussed group and glares down at them, stone faced. He breaks every finger of their left hands, starting with the man who had taken a shot at him. Their screams grant him a vindictive sort of glee he’s glad Bruce isn’t here to witness. When he returns to the closet, Jason looks none of the things he was afraid of. Instead he looks grimly satisfied, though he flinches when he catches the flash of a sharp-edged wingding in Nightwing’s hands. Dick slows and exaggerates his movements instantly, as he lowers the blade to the tape at the boy’s ankles.

“Shh, sh. It’s okay. I’m just cutting the tape. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Once the heavy tape severs, he pulls it free from where it clings to Jason’s jeans. When he moves to Jason’s wrists he pauses. The tape is wrapped tighter here and directly over skin, there’s no way he can get it off without it pulling at Jason’s mangled hand. He brushes his fingers lightly in a circle over the skin on the back of his brother’s good hand. He wishes he could feel the warmth of the skin through his gloves.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can but I’m afraid this is going to hurt,” he says softly, searching Jason’s face for understanding.

He gets another silent nod that has his heart fraying at the edges. Jason may not be as extroverted as Dick, but that has never translated into him being quiet. Sometimes, it feels as if the only times the boy is silent is when he’s reading or sulking, and even then his sulking is peppered with dramatic heavy sighs. He doesn’t like this stoic mute version of his little brother. Dick peels the tape away as carefully as possible, wincing every time Jason lets a strained grunt make it past his tightly screwed lips. Finally, the last inch pulls free and Dick massages the tender flesh there to encourage blood flow back into the extremities. There’s a small gasp and Dick sympathizes with the all too familiar pins-and-needles feeling Jason must be experiencing.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Dick asks gesticulating to way Jason’s curled protectively over his hand.

He gets a shake of the head this time.

Dick sighs. “Okay, let’s get out of here then. I’m going to pick you up, alright?”

“I can walk by myself.”

The harsh rasp of the boy’s voice after his prolonged silence startles Dick.

“Yeah, kid I know you can,” Dick lies. Jason looks like he’d topple over in a light breeze. "But trust me, with the way we’re going to be traveling—it’ll go a lot faster if you let me carry you.”

Jason considers it, eyes narrowed on him suspiciously.

“How are we traveling?”

Dick grins, bright and glorious, “We’re going to fly. Sound good?”

Jason blinks into the dark corners that served as his prison cell then back to Dick and sniffs, “Yeah, okay.”

Then Dick is scooping Jason up and pulling him close before the boy can change his mind. Dick revels in the feeling of the bony chest and thin limbs pressed against him. He has to consciously stop himself from burying his nose in the boy’s hair and instead guides Jason to wrap his legs around his waist and his good arm around his neck. He rises smoothly to his feet, his brother’s slight weight barely noticeable, and moves as quickly as he can towards the stairwell. Jason zeroes in on the pathetic pile of kidnappers sprawled in the office groaning in various states of consciousness.

“I thought you were the nice one,” he whispers against Dick’s ear.

“What do you mean?”

“Batman is supposed to be the scary one, he’s not really. I met him once. But everyone thinks he is. And Nightwing is supposed to be the nice one, making stupid jokes all the time. But you hurt them, didn’t you?”

Dick inhales sharply. “Yes. I did. I guess you’re right. I wasn’t very nice tonight. Not to people who hurt kids,” he admits viciously.

Jason buries his head in Dick’s neck. He can barely hear the muffled “Good,” murmured against his pulse.

Dick keeps both arms locked tight around Jason until they make it to the roof and he has to free one to use the grapple. When they’re standing at the edge looking at the skyline silhouetted against the hazy glow of city lights, Dick pulls his head back to look Jason in the eye.

“Bruce is at the police station and I can take you there, but if it’s okay I’d rather take you to Dr. Thompkins’ clinic. It’s closer and she can take a look at your hand there while you wait for your family to come get you. I don’t know about you but I’m not particularly fond of the police station, vigilantism isn’t exactly legal you know? But I’ll take you there if that’s what you want.”

Dick shifts the boy on his hip a fraction as he waits for a reply.

“I don’t want to go the police. I just want my dad,” Jason croaks, voice cracking on the last word.

The veneer of stoicism he’s had ever since Dick found him is starting to fall away and the hitch in his breathing tells Dick tears aren’t far off. Dick gives him a comforting squeeze. God, if only Bruce had been here to hear that. _The ‘D’ word_. He’d probably get that look like he hasn’t pooped in a week, but all misty-eyed.

“Clinic it is then. We’ll be there before you know it and nurse Cathy at the front desk will make you a hot chocolate and everything. First though, it’s time to fly, okay? Hold on tight. You’re going to love this.”


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY THIS IS LATE! I know I said I'd be updating on Sundays, but my stupid off-brand internet provider is giving me probs and I haven't been able to connect long enough to get anything posted til now.
> 
> And I know, I know. I talk about Star Wars in MDOJT and now its here again but...I've picked it for this story because its one of Jason's canon pop-culture references (UtRH; when he calls the Hyena Chewbacca). So canonically we _know_ he's seen it and presumably it stuck with him enough to make it into his catalog of pithy fight phrases. Also, going to the re-releases of _Episodes IV-VI_ with my dad was a HUGE part of my childhood. They were my dad's favorite movies as a teenager when they originally came out and it was very special when he was able to share them with me when they hit theaters again in the 1990s. It's definitely something I can see Bruce using as a way to try and forge a relationship with Jason. And you know Jason would eat that shit up, he'd be so excited that Bruce was sharing something he'd enjoyed in his childhood with him in his. So in this 'verse, Star Wars is going to have a special place in Jason  & Bruce's relationship...
> 
> Anyways..to the conclusion!

 

 

** Epilogue **

 

It’s just past one in the morning when they finally stumble back into the manor after Jason is released from the clinic and Gordon’s questions. Bruce carries the exhausted boy in like he weighs less than nothing. Three fingers on Jason’s left hand are splinted. The fingers of his right hand are clawed into the front of Bruce’s shirt, mangling the fabric. Dick had tried to lift him out of the car when they pulled into the garage, but Bruce’s touch was the only touch Jason would accept for now. He follows them up the short flight of steps leading into the kitchen through the mudroom. Alfred is waiting and ready for them as soon as they walk in. There’s a cup of tea on the kitchen island and Dick wonders if Alfred has done anything other than sit and watch the door since Dick called to let him know they would be home soon. The butler goes to plant a kiss on Jason’s forehead, but pulls back when the boy shies away. Dick shares a sympathetic look with the old man. It had been difficult keeping his hold on Jay strictly professional as Nightwing. It had been absolutely crushing when Jason then denied his embrace once Dick arrived in civvies. Alfred takes it in stride far better than he did, seemingly unsurprised and unoffended by Jason’s rejection. The butler keeps his distance but stays within Jason’s sight. His voice is low and comforting when he speaks.

“Master Jason, I am so glad to have you back home with us. You’ve been through a trial. Let’s get you cozy now. A hot shower and a spot of tea after will be just the thing.”

Bruce crouches to set Jason down but Jason does not release his grip on his adoptive father. Bruce buries his face in Jason’s hair like Dick had been tempted to do as Nightwing earlier and he feels a flash of jealousy. Jason’s curls move under Bruce’s lips as he speaks, words muffled but understandable.

“Go with Alfred, Jay-lad. I’ll be right here when you get back, Dick and I both. We’re not going anywhere. We’re family. _You’re family_ , and we will always be here for you.”

“Come now Master Jason,” Alfred coaxes gently, “You’ll be much more comfortable once you get out of those dirty clothes and into some nice pajamas. We’ll wash this terrible day down the drain like it never happened.”

Jason’s gaze skips between the three men around him, calculating. Always calculating, even when he is in the safest place he can be. Dick smiles encouragingly. He’s not sure exactly what Jason sees that convinces him to let go, but Jason’s fingers flex once then slowly uncurl. He stretches his legs down until his toes hit travertine tile and doesn’t protest when Bruce straightens back up. His eyes flick to the butler and the doorway leading to the main hall before landing once again on Bruce.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Bruce swears.

He swears like a god, like his word is made implacable truth simply because he said it. Hell, maybe it does work that way with Bruce. Dick had certainly believed it when he was a kid. Jason seems to buy it too. He gives Alfred a curt jerk of his chin and allows to old man to lead him upstairs. Dick turns to Bruce and blows his bangs out of his face. All of the tension rushes out with the air, leaving him feeling like a deflated balloon. Bruce is still standing rigidly in his coat and $700 cordovan leather bluchers.

“Drinks?” Dick suggests.

“Scotch,” Bruce agrees.

Dick pops into the dining hall and helps himself to a bottle of Lagavulin single malt from the bar. The label looks dark and friendly. He returns, clinking two glasses down on the island next to Alfred’s abandoned tea. Bruce doesn’t say anything about the fact Dick isn’t yet twenty-one when he pours them both two fingers each. Bruce downs his in a single go, while Dick struggles to swallow his first sip. He is brutally forced to accept that champagne flutes at WE galas and shots of whip cream vodka at Mount Justice with the team has not prepared him for drinking on Bruce’s level.

“Oh god, that burns,” he chokes out in a small voice.

Bruce takes the bottle from Dick and pours himself another glass. He takes a modest sip and Dick thinks maybe Bruce will pace himself from here on out, but then Bruce shakes his head and tosses the rest of the glass down just like before.

“Never again,” Bruce says woodenly, pouring once again.

“Agreed,” Dick rasps.

The second sip goes down easier than the first, now that he knows what to expect but scotch will never be one of his favorite things. By the third, his chest is feeling pleasantly warm.

“You see, you see why I didn’t want you taking him into the field as Robin?” He slurs.

Bruce pauses, glass raised.

“This was bad enough. But you know… When I found out it was just a bunch of dead-beat wannabe thugs looking for quick cash? I was so… relieved. Because it could have been so much worse. Can you imagine if it had been one of the Rogues? Zasz or Two-face, or god forbid, Joker?”

Bruce abandons the glass in favor of grabbing onto the counter. His knuckles are white.

“Bruce? Are you…okay?”

“Did I do the right thing with you, Dick?”

“What?” Dick asks, thrown by the turn in conversation.

“Here you are talking about protecting Jason from the lifestyle, and I… God, you were even younger than him and I let you dive right in.”

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Dick sighs and puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean yeah, it was definitely reckless endangerment of a minor,” he chuckles humorlessly, “But like I told you before, I would have gone out with or without you. It’s probably better I was with you. And, geez, that was what? Ten years ago? You weren’t that much older than I am now. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He can tell it doesn’t work. Bruce has never been one to forgive himself for being anything less than perfect.

“God, I really had no idea what I was doing back then, did I?” Bruce moans.

“You do now,” Dick placates, “You know, the Robin training wasn’t all a totally bad idea. It definitely helped me out of getting kidnapped a few times.”

Bruce nods in affirmation.

“Jason will need to be trained in self-defense, Robin notwithstanding. I’ll scout instructors tomorrow. Jiu-jitsu and Krav Maga would be preferable, I think. Maybe hire a bodyguard as well for when you or I can’t be there. Equip him with emergency tracking beacons. I need to look into alternatives for sc—

“Whoa, whoa. Bruce, slow down!” Dick holds his hands up expressively, palms out, cutting off Bruce’s intensity, “Let’s just… Calm down. We’ll think about all that stuff tomorrow. But tonight, Jason needs you here. Present. Not mentally in the Cave devising all the fun new ways to hide a tracker in his high-tops, okay?”

“Shoes, that’s a good idea,” Bruce rumbles, “They could go in the sole. Not easily detected there on accident. Just need to be waterproof.”

“I’m serious Bruce,” Dick warns.

“So am I, but…you’re right.”

Dick stares at him in surprise. His face heats up and he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the admission. It’s not a phrase he hears from Bruce often, especially not in the past couple years. Bruce polishes off the last of his scotch and looks into the empty glass, watching how the light catches on the facet cut bottom when he turns it. Dick feels like he should say something in return. He feels like he should pay back in kind before the awkward silence weighs down too heavily.

“He, uh. He called you the D word, by the way. When I found him. He said all he wanted was his dad. Just thought you should know.”

The glass clatters onto the counter, rolling on its side a few inches before he catches it.

“Really?” Bruce asks, eyes wide.

“Mhm,” Dick smiles kindly.

The sound of two pairs of feet coming down the stairs draw their attention to the hall; the smart snap of Alfred’s wingtips and the softer shuffle of slippers. Jason peeks his head in the kitchen and Bruce is moving, sweeping him back up into his arms, running his hand up and down over the little knobs of Jason’s spine through his sleep shirt.

 

It’s not the party they had planned. They leave the gifts sitting on the sideboard, still wrapped to perfection with crisply creased corners and expertly tied bows (except for Dick’s –he’d wrapped it himself before coming to the manor). Turns out Jason is a southpaw (another thing Dick hadn’t realized about his little brother) and his right hand is too clumsy and tired at the moment. They’ll unwrap the gifts in the morning. The cake remains uncut as well, frosting immaculate. Jason’s stomach isn’t feeling well after the drop. Dick had suspected some kind of sedative from Jason’s glazed eyes and general lethargy when he found him. When the tox-screening came back though… Dick had been _livid_. He’d never not regretted his temper getting the best of him more. They can have the cake for breakfast. For now, Alfred arranges a tray of saltine crackers with some cheese slices to take into the den with them. Dick leaves the tray on the coffee table, within reach of the couch and goes to grab a movie from the cabinet.

He doesn’t need to pause for consideration before he pops _A New Hope in_. Star Wars is Jason’s no-contest favorite movies. Dick turns to find a seat. Bruce and Jason are illuminated by the television’s glow; Bruce stretched out with Jason pulled against his chest and a blanket spread over them both. Usually Dick would sprawl upside down across the loveseat, but tonight he grabs a cushion and settles down on the floor so he can lean back against the couch his brother and father figure share. Alfred joins them a few minutes later, passing out cups of mint tea before settling in the old wingback chair. He raises an eyebrow at Dick’s choice of seating but doesn’t comment on it. Dick wants to be close to his family right now. Close enough he can hear Jason’s amused huff of not-quite laughter when Chewbacca appears and Bruce lets loose with a startlingly dead-on wookie impersonation. Dick cranes his neck back to look at his mentor incredulously. Bruce gives him a half-shrug, grinning. It’s the rare moments like these Dick is _almost_ convinced Bruce was once a regular kid, instead of springing into existence from the thigh of Justice as a fully grown brooding adult.

At the end of the film, Alfred excuses himself, stating he’ll need to be up early to make breakfast for them all. Dick’s rear has gone numb. He sits and stretches when the credits roll, ready to head to bed. But when he catches a glimpse of Jason, the boy’s eyes are still wide awake and flicking between the television screen and the darkened doorway that leads into the main hall, clearly anxious at the prospect of being left to go to bed alone. Dick gets up and switches out _Episode IV_ for _Episode V_ without asking. Bruce disappears and Dick thinks he’s gone to bed as well, but reappears a few minutes later in an undershirt and flannel pants carrying an armful of extra pillows and blankets. He tosses a few at Dick and Dick arranges them into a nest at the foot of the couch. If they’re going to be here all night, he may as well get comfortable.

He doesn’t remember passing out. The last thing he remembers is C-3PO getting dismembered in Cloud City and then Bruce’s toes are nudging him in the side, back to consciousness. He stares at the foot blearily before following it up to its owner and blinking. Bruce points his foot towards the television and dips his head to where Jason is laying against him. The tension finally seems to have drained out of the boy’s body; his limbs and neck are loose and relaxed. His eyes are still open though, if narrowed to slits. Dick nods in understanding. He shuffles as quietly as he can to the TV and puts in the final installment of the trilogy.

 

 

Alfred finds the three of them still in the den the next morning. He shakes his head. Dick is spread-eagle on the floor snoring with leg one leg kicked up on the couch, his foot entangled with its occupants’ as though he was physically incapable of being apart from the other two. Bruce’s neck is curved backwards over the arm of the sofa at an alarming angle. Alfred does not envy the crick in the neck his master will wake to. He may perhaps be a little envious however, of the hand splayed over the back of the boy sleeping on top of him and the way Jason’s face is mashed into Bruce’s chest. Alfred chuckles at the damp spot growing on Bruce’s shirt. It will wash out easily enough.


End file.
